Late Night with Absolutely Nobody
by Filter
Summary: Wilson interrupts House's late nite "chat" with Mistresses Vicodin and Morphine, and Mr Whiskey.


Late night with Absolutely Nobody 9-9-09 A House MD fic by Filter *insert warnings here about copyright, having no money, don't sue, etc….*

Night had deepened beyond the reddish glow of sunset, and the only light in the room was from a tabletop lamp next to the sofa the thin, tall man lay on. The soft glow cast his tired face in shadows which deepened the lines by his blue eyes, aging him instantly. The eyes were almost unblinking, and without the regular rise and fall of his chest, one could be excused for thinking him dead.

Recrossing his long legs, Greg House shifted until his right leg was more or less comfortable—less was usually how it ended up—and groaned under his breath. He had taken four Vicodin with his scotch, and was waiting or them to work. *Well, work in a good way,* he thought without humor. Not too long ago his best friend had found him lying in vomit on the floor after mixing pain pills and liquor. He remembered James Wilson's sad, disappointed face and the way he walked out the front door, unable or unwilling to deal with his broken friend. *Wish I hadn't done that to him.*

The mixing hadn't been new, but he had lately been doing it more often—for some reason his right leg was making a lot more noise than usual and House had found himself gritting his teeth and trying to conduct differentials while talking through those clenched teeth. Headaches and body aches were constant companions, and try as he might, the Vicodin didn't seem to work.

*But it has to work,* he thought desperately. *If I just lie here long enough…*

"Damn!" The faint curse was cut off by the damaged nerves in his leg setting off a firestorm of pain, and he clutched it with both hands, trying to massage it back under control. The pain radiated up his leg and into his head, and he let out a soft sob as the pain slammed into his brain, waking more neurons to deliver more pain messages until his head felt like it was melting. Curling up a little, House clutched his head with one hand and his right leg with the other, trying to physically push the pain out of his body. "Please, oh please, please…" he begged as he began to feel the nausea welling up inside. With a gasp, he lurched off the sofa, stumbling against the wall in the hall and toward the bathroom. He could feel the bile rising quickly and practically dragged his right foot behind him as he made his way to the bathroom and the already-open toilet. Falling forward, he caught the rim of the toilet bowl and managed to lift his head up enough to vomit into the bowl, not on the floor.

He felt the nausea swell again, but little was left to throw up. The smell and taste was enough to make him gag, but all that came up was bile and warm liquid. He spun around and collapsed back on the floor of the bathroom, hands holding his head as he cried tears of pain. His leg was jerking and twitching, synapses firing randomly as his body tried to bring all systems back under control. He felt as if he were about to have a seizure, so violent was the shaking of his leg and the hands on his head. "Just—breathe, Greg, breathe… god, it hurts!" he screamed at nobody at all.

Several miles and several worlds away, Wilson sat on his own sofa, aimlessly clicking the TV remote. The week had already been harrowing—his best friend in particular was bugging Wilson, since House had seemed overly fragile as well as overly volatile lately. When Wilson asked what was wrong, House had snarled in typical fashion that he was fine, but underneath the words Wilson could hear a worn desperation—he knew his best friend was walking a thin line.  
As he had more already done more than once that day, Wilson whispered to himself, "It's House. Just be there, and maybe one day if he needs you…"

His cell phone jangled him out of the reverie, and recognizing the ring tone as House's assigned one, he picked up. "Wilson's Cleaning Service. We're closed, leave a message," he said without humor.

The other side of the conversation seemed to be nothing but labored and pained breathing. Wilson looked at the phone quickly. "Uh, House, it's really too late for phone porn—do you think it can wait until—"

"Talk to me." The voice was House's, but colored with an edge and hurt Wilson hadn't heard in a long time. "Just—please talk to me," repeated the voice.

Wilson sat up. *Jesus, what has he done now?* he wondered, but said, "Are you okay? Do you need me to come over or—"

On the other end of the line, House gasped as his leg jerked spasmodically. "N-no, no, just listen to me—talk to me goddammit!"

Surprised, Wilson listened more carefully, the breathing and hesitation in House's voice telling him that his best friend was using a lot of energy to control pain. "Okay. Okay, I will. Talk to me, or I'll talk to you—but as long as you're okay," Wilson said slowly. He didn't want House to hang up, but he also knew House probably didn't want to hang up either—for some reason, House seemed to think the simple sound of Wilson's voice could help him through his problem.

House closed his eyes and sighed. "I'm not ok. But I'm not dying—I think. Head, leg… just threw up and not feelin' groovy."

"Sounds like it. Anyone else there with you, or did you do this all on your own?" Wilson was fully awake now, and actually grabbed a pen to take notes if he needed to.

House snorted, then moaned. "Oh… no. Alone. All alone. Late Night Show with House. You get all access pass, buddy mine." He pulled himself up a little to rest against the wall. "God. Hurts, Jimmy-Boy."

*He hardly ever calls me Jimmy,* Wilson thought, but pushed it aside. "I see. And your guests were Mr Vicodin and Mr Scotch?" Wilson asked, trying to keep his voice light.

In the bathroom gloom, House nodded. "Everyone knows Vicodin is a right bitch—it's Miz Vicodin. But yeah… scotch." House felt a little ashamed at his confession. He never wanted to OD, but the mix he had used-- *well, that's just a visit from Mister Stupid, isn't it?* he thought wryly.

On his end, Wilson rubbed his forehead painfully. "House… god. But you puked, right? It's not all inside you. Guess that's a bad end to your show, though."

House smiled a little, reaching under the bathroom sink, fingers searching for a long thin box taped under the rim. "Huh. Well… Mr Pain in My Fuckin' Leg is really the guest star… likes to hog all the lights, Jimmy." With a smile, House felt his fingers close on the plastic box and he pulled.

"Same pain, or different than usual?" Wilson asked, trying to keep House focused on one thing. He knew in this kind of situation that House could be completely uncontrollable, and therefore, dangerous.

Snapping the lid off, House pondered the full syringe. "Bad, Jimmy. Feels like my leg is melting, my head… just wanna make it stop now!" he hissed, rubbing his forehead briefly.

*Okay, this means something, he's gonna take more pills or something!* Wilson thought in fear. "Listen… Greg, listen to me! It's Wilson. I want you to just calm down now. Just calm down and don't do anything until I get there—"

"I don't want you here!" House roared, cutting Wilson off with the outburst. His head reacted by seemingly splitting open in pain. "Oh! Ohh god…" House moaned, eyes filling with tears. "Please make it stop," he whimpered into the phone.

"Okay! Okay, Greg, I won't go over there. But talk to me, please! Please—tell me about the show, the Late Night thing- come on, Greg, tell me!" Wilson begged, hoping he could keep House talking on the cell while he got ready to drive to House's apartment.

House tried to focus on Wilson's voice, the comforting sound of his best friend and only friend. "I—I don't know. Can't focus, Jim," House whispered. His fingers blindly ran over the morphine syringe. "Hurts."

As Wilson pulled on his jacket and grabbed his keys, he kept at House. "Oh come on, Greg. You're better than that—or well, let me interview them. You answer, okay? Star in your own show, all right buddy?" he asked, finally setting out to drive.

House smiled slightly. "All right. Anything for you, Wilson. Who's our first guest?"

Careful to close his car door gently, Wilson started it and backed out while talking. "Let's hear from the wimpiest guest. Mr Scotch, come on down!" He made the sounds of cheering while he spun his wheels and headed towards House.

A cough racked his body when House laughed at that. "Oh! Oh, Jimmy, don't be funny! It's not like you and it's killing me… okay, Mr Scotch!" House affected a WC Fields boozy drunk voice and laughed. "All right, all right! I'm here. And I see a lot of my friends out there!"

"Scotch, good to see you. Have a seat and tell us about your relationship to that shell of a man, Greg House!" Wilson said, putting more humor into his voice than he felt.

"Of course, of course, but first I want to thank my legions of fans. I know I'm nothing without you all--- but of course with enough of me, you all become nothing too!" House started to laugh, but the truth of the statement saddened him, and he wished he had brought his bottle of scotch with him.

"There's time for that later, Scotch. We really want to know how you first came to know our friend Greg House, and how close you two really are—shit!" Wilson said, narrowly missing a parked car on the street as he careened down roads.

"Now now, none of that. I'll have you know Greg House is a fine boy, a fine boy… why, never had a closer friend than House! I can depend on him to take me almost anywhere!" House slid further down the wall, only his aching head leaning on it. The syringe lay next to him, and nervous fingers tapped at it. "Anywhere," he repeated softly.

"Sounds like a fine relationship so far, but what have you given him, Scotch? Seems to me like he hardly remembers anything about you after your nights out together," Wilson said, putting a small dig in the words. "Might we say you use him?"

"Ha! Me use him? Why, if ever a one was being used, it's me! I give him peace, quiet, and escape—and he gives me what? Ignores me and puts me on a shelf—hey, that was good, Wilson! On a shelf!" House laughed, to his regret. He curled up on his side, the laugh setting off flares of pain in his head, and suddenly House saw red and blue lights behind his closed eyelids.

The moan his best friend made landed with a thud in Wilson's stomach. "Greg? Greg!" he yelled, hoping to break through to House-- *only a mile or two more,* Wilson thought wildly.

"House, talk to me!" he begged.

"Don't-- yell, Wilson," House begged himself. "My fuckin' head..."

As he heard the faint sounds of Wilson chattering--*and is he driving?* House wondered-- House stared at the morphine. He had long ago hidden it for a rainy day, away from most seekers. He wondered if the rain had finally arrived.

House wasn't sure what effect the morphine would have on him-- after all, this time he wasn't just on Vicodin, he had washed it down liberally with scotch. "Is it time to dance with you, bitch?" House whispered hoarsely, breath ragged.

As he made the turn onto House's street, Wilson almost screamed into the phone, "Greg! Who are you with? Dance with who? House! Dammit, talk to me! Get Scotch off your show and let's hear from Vicodin-- Greg!" *Oh please, hurry up, hurry up Wilson!* he thought wildly.

House felt the words more than heard them. Wilson's voice always had a smooth, soothing effect when he was in pain, almost like his best friend was gently rubbing his back or had placed an arm around his shaking shoulders. He sighed and turned onto his back, eyes leaving the syringe for now. "Wilson," he said softly into the phone.

Wilson was pulling up to House's building and leapt out the car door. "Yeah? You okay?" he asked as he ran to the door, trying to find the spare keys House had given him.

"She's here, Wilson."

Shoving the wrong key into the building door, Wilson cursed. "Who? Miss Vicodin?" Wilson asked to keep House talking, frantic.

"No. That bitch is married to me. Not a guest, Jimmy." House snorted. "You know that."

Sighing in relief as the door opened, Wilson bolted up the stairs two at a time as he spoke. " I do, yes. So who?"

House thought he heard soft scrabbling near his front door, but pushed it aside. "Huh. No, it's-- it's Mistress Morphine, Jimmy. Super bitch and I are going mano a mano, Wilson. She has-- nothing to say to you. Just wants to be in the spotlight again." House, the pain filling him with something resembling desperation, clutched at the syringe as Wilson unlocked his front door.

"House, no!" Wilson yelled as he burst in the front door, eyes wild. No House. "House, where are you?"

In his haze, hand gripping the morphine, House vaguely thought he heard Wilson's voice. "No-- it's cool, Jimmy. Just one little dance and--"

Wilson bolted down the hall, still talking. "No, not scotch and vicodin and morphine-- goddamn it, House!" Wilson yelled as he entered the bathroom. He took in House's figure on the floor, his hand trying to shove the morphine needle through his jeans leg. Dropping his phone, Wilson went to his knees next to House, yanked the syringe out of the trembling hand, and pulled House up, holding him in a tight hug. "Greg," he whispered, not sure if House heard it.

The abrupt change in position made House's head pound even more, and his eyes were wet with tears as he let his best friend hold him close. In a few short seconds, House had laid his head on Wilson's shoulder and was crying softly, tears soaking Wilson's coat.

Aware House would be embarassed, Wilson let go and tried to look closely at House. The blue eyes looking back at him were filled with pain and a lot of despair Wilson had not seen in a long time. House looked exhausted beyond measure, and for a split second Wilson wanted to give House the morphine to dull the pain, wanted to do something to help his best friend's agony improve. But the shame in House's face as he glanced away from Wilson told him that he needed to play bad guy once more.

"You're an idiot. But you know that," Wilson said as he helped House sit back against the wall. "How many-- how many Vicodin? And scotch?" Wilson forced one blue eye, then another open, and took House's pulse. "Well?"

"Dunno. Four-- and four, maybe. Wilson, what-- what are you doing here? Just wanted to talk," House pouted, unwilling for the moment to let Wilson know how glad he was to see him. While Wilson was unnecessarily rough with his vitals, House knew Wilson was going to make it better-- for now.

Satisfied his friend was mostly okay, Wilson sat back and regarded House. He didn't miss the pain, the exhaustion, and the grief-- but he noticed a remarkable lack of anger. "So talk. I see you had a surprise guest tonight. Where'd you stash this?" Wilson held up the morphine syringe.

House looked at the syringe and shrugged. "Gift from a patient." His eyes widened suddenly as Wilson jabbed the needle through his jeans leg. "Ow! Wilson!"

Wilson smiled and pulled the needle out. He held up the syringe so House could see the liquid still in it. "Trick or treat, you stupid son of a bitch," he said, dropping the syringe into the sink with a clatter.

"You suck, Wilson," House rasped, rubbing his leg. The needle pushing into his leg has actually shocked him-- for a minute, he had thought Wilson was going to help him kill himself. He frowned at Wilson's laughter. "What?"

"Oh-- oh, House. Did I scare you? I mean, didn't you want morphine? I-- god! Greg, for once, just once, will you think of me, your friend? Maybe think I don't *want* to find my best friend lying in a pool of his own whisky vomit? Maybe I think you have something to give-- at least, something to give me. Would that be so-- so fucking bad?" Wilson slammed his fist down on the tile floor. "You're a selfish bastard, House."

House watched Wilson drop his head and shake it slightly, a deep sigh filling the small room. "You knew that," he said weakly, fighting against the guilt and depression he felt. "Whatever I do, you have always known what you're getting into with me."

Wilson looked up. "Shut the fuck up! Just shut up, House. I mean-- you know... maybe you're right." Wilson stood up and looked down at House. The pain and fear in his friend's eyes hurt him, but his own sense of outrage and fear led him on. "I've always known. And you have never, not for one moment, not lived up to yourself. I've rescued, helped, fought, and abetted your stupidity because you're my friend-- my oldest friend, and I loved you. I love you now, Greg. That's why-- that's why it hurts so much to see you doing this to yourself." Wilson turned and walked out of the room, leaving House stunned.

With a heavy sigh, Wilson sat on House's sofa after retrieving a beer from the refrigerator. In his head, he was reliving the sight of the needle, House on the floor of the bathroom, his friend's fear-filled countenance. He closed his eyes as he sat, drawing a long draft of the beer and enjoying the coldness.

After a few more minutes, just when Wilson had gotten his heart rate down, he felt a tentative hand on his shoulder and jumped a little. He hadn't heard House make his way into the living room, but there he stood, behind the sofa, one hand on Wilson's right shoulder.

"Wilson," House started hoarsely. Wilson pulled away from his hand.

"If you're back on your feet, I'll leave now," Wilson said, standing stiffly. He drank down the rest of the beer, House watching the line of his friend's throat moving quickly.

"You don't have to go," he said. Wilson finished the beer and chuckled.

"No, I don't. But I damn well better. One of us is going to get hurt if I stay." Wilson smiled slightly. "I'm glad you're up. But I'm not going to ask you not to do something stupid again. There's no point, and you're a grown man-- so to speak." Wilson began to move around the sofa. House stopped him with a hand on his chest.

"Wilson, look-- please, don't go. I-- I know I'm screwed up, but... please. Please stay for a while?"

Wilson sighed, but when he looked up at House's face, he was shocked to see tears rimming his eyes and a desperately lost look on his best friend's face. "Greg, I--"

"Wilson, please!" House begged. "I'm-- I'm scared. Scared of what I"m doing-- I can't control it. Please, James... help me. I know it's not the first or the last time-- but I need you, Wilson." House let his hand drop and sighed. "You're my best friend," he muttered softly.

What does he think I am? A total masochist? Wilson thought, even as his heart lurched a little. Please was not a word often used by House, and it always stopped Wilson short.

It was late, it was cold, and both men were feeling the strain of being each others' shadow, the light and dark sides of their selves, and their own best enemies. Wilson put the bottle down, placed his hands on House's shoulders, and managed a smile when the older man looked up.

"Wilson?" House asked.

"House... Just-- be quiet. I'll stay." Wilson laughed. "How could I live with myself if I didn't? And how could I live without you?" He pulled House in for a hug.

House's body reacted stiffly to the embrace, but when he realized the depth of his friend' commitment to their friendship--to him-- he relaxed and hugged Wilson back.

"Thank you, Wilson," he whispered. "I couldn't live without you-- much as you might hate to hear it."

Wilson laughed and broke the hug. "Okay. So we're doomed. Now-- how about cutting the Late Show short and getting you to sleep." He began leading House to his bedroom

"So long as special guest James Wilson is still on the show." House managed a feeble smile as he limped along. "That was bad.. I'm sorry."

"Hm. Maybe one day you really will mean that, House," Wilson said. "Until then-- I can wait."

END 


End file.
